24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) (35 page)

A shotgun boomed. Jack looked in his rearview mirror. Rowdy had halted his cycle to shoot a man. His first shot missed. He stood straddling the bike, shotgun raised to his right shoulder as he swung the muzzle in line with the fugitive and fired again. His quarry went down.

The clearing was empty of fl
eeing figures but littered with fallen ones.
The enemy’s firepower was now concentrated in the long house where the remaining shooters were making a stand.
They were inside covering behind wooden walls and shooting through windows and the open doorway. Four of them: three at the window and one at the door.

Jack thought that wooden plank walls wouldn’t provide much protection against bullets or trucks. He glanced at Pettibone, who huddled cowering in the well under the dashboard on his side of the cab as much as the short rope around his neck allowed. Jack said, “Here we go!”

Pettibone cried, “No, no!”

Jack pointed the truck at the long house and leaned on the horn to get the bikers’ attention, filling the clearing with a loud rude braying.
He engaged the gear and the truck rolled forward, gathering speed.

The shooters targeted the truck as it closed in on them. Jack hunched down in his seat as low as he could get while still seeing over the top of the dashboard. Line of fire tore up the turf in front of him. The shooters got their range and poured it on into the truck. Bullets spattered the armored front racketing like the proverbial hailstorm on a tin roof.

A row of slugs stitched a cratered line of bullet holes in the cab’s rear panel not far from the top of Jack’s head.

The long house loomed up, filling Jack’s field of vision.
He steered toward the window through which a trio of shooters were blasting. The truck’s left front tire was shot to pieces, causing it to tilt and veer left.

Jack battled the slide, hauling the steering wheel hard right to compensate for the drift. It took some muscle to keep the machine on course.

The building was fronted by a foot-tall wooden boardwalk. The planks snapped and splintered under the truck’s weight, sounding like they were being fed into a wood chipper. They fought the vehicle’s progress, trying to slow it down. It bucked and shuddered but continued its advance. The steering wheel fought to break Jack’s hold but he clutched it with both hands in a death grip.

Jack stomped the gas pedal to the floor and kept it pinned, goosing a final wild burst of shrieking RPMs out of the engine.

The wall with the window was in his way. The truck punched through it, battering two shooters crouching behind it. They greased the machine’s wheels as it thrust into the long house.

The long house had a long hall.
Its wooden floor collapsed under the truck.
The pickup continued its forward motion, tearing up planks and beams and tossing them to either side. It slid to the middle of the space before jerking to a halt.

Rafters rained down on the truck. The wall behind it had a truck-sized hole in it. Part of it caved, bringing the front half of the roof down with it. The collapse kicked up thick clouds of dry gray dust. Heaps of debris, timbers, and tabletop-sized chunks of plaster came crashing down on the cab’s roof and hood.

The middle of the front half of the roof came down but the opposite ends held, the reinforced corner beams staying upright and bearing their load. Jack thought the debris had stopped falling but then another heap came cascading down.

The overhead lights stayed on, so the power source hadn’t been cut. That was a break. Jack didn’t fancy playing a deadly game of hide-and-go-kill in the dark.

The engine had stalled out. Jack unfastened his seat belt harness and grabbed the riot shotgun by the stock. His left hand gripped the door handle and pulled. The door opened but only a foot or so before stopping, jammed in place by fallen rubble.

He put his shoulder to the door and his weight behind it and tried again, forcing the door open wide enough so he could get out. He put his foot out preparatory to climbing down from the cab. A piece of plaster the size of a card table top fell from above, shattering against the top of the door.

Jack pulled back but the reflex action would have been too late to save him if he’d tried to dismount a heartbeat sooner. He ducked out the open door, dragging the shotgun across the seat with him. The pump-action weapon had a cut-down muzzle and stock, making it the length of a long baton.

An arm stuck out from under the truck. It was still attached to its dead owner. Jack was careful not to step on it, not out of squeamishness but because the footing was uncertain enough without it.

The floor was an obstacle course of holes in the floorboards and piles of rubble. Plaster dust streamed down from above by the handful, powdering him with white particles and flecks. Clouds of the stuff roiled and swirled in the hall like a fog bank rolling in. Dry fog.

Jack moved in a crouch, shotgun leveled. He tried to step carefully but lost his footing on a broken plank and sat down hard. Someone deeper in the hall squirted a burst of autofire in his direction but it missed and passed over his head. He couldn’t tell where it had come from, not with the streaming, billowing bank of white particles in midair obscuring his view.

He picked up a piece of plaster and scaled it off to one side. The oldest gag in the book, but it stayed in the book because it worked.
The phantom shooter opened fire at the sound of the plaster hitting the floor.

Streaking muzzle flares revealed a ghostly outline of a figure off to Jack’s right. Jack loosed a shotgun blast at it, held down the trigger and pumped several more blasts at it.
A scream choked off and a body hit the floor, leaving only swirling white dust where the figure had stood.

Jack thought he’d got him but he had to be sure. He advanced slowly, picking his way through the mounds of debris heaped on the floor. He held the shotgun in both hands, leveled at his waist, ready to respond to any sudden threat. The debris lessened as he moved farther away from the front wall. The plaster dust was starting to settle, the white clouds thinning and breaking up.

A dark form lay sprawled on the floor in the area where Jack had fired at his assailant. He approached it cautiously in case the other was shamming, playing possum to take Jack by surprise. He neared the body and saw there was no worry about that. This opponent wasn’t coming back for another round, not with the damage the shotgun had done to him.

Footfalls scuttled through disturbed debris behind him. Jack spun, ready to cut loose.
A figure jumped up and ran outside through the open doorway.
He was out before Jack had a shot at him.

The fugitive ran into a blast of gunfire. A scream sounded, more gunshots, and then the sound of a body hitting the boardwalk.

Jack had no desire to be shot by his allies so he hung back to one side out of the potential line of fire offered by the doorway. “Griff! Rowdy!”

Griff called back, “That you, dude?”

“Yeah!”

“What’s happening?”

“It looks clear in here but keep your guard up.”

“I always do, man. I’m coming in so don’t shoot.”

“Don’t you shoot, either.”

Griff came through the doorway, a gun in each hand. He circled a tangle of broken beams, sidling close to the passenger side of the truck. He stopped short, looking down at something and muttering a stifled exclamation. Jack couldn’t see what it was from where he was standing.

Griff pointed his gun downward and fired once.
Jack said, “Why’d you shoot?”

Griff said, “A guy was crushed under the rear wheel. He was still alive. It was a mercy killing.” He looked up, looked around. “Did we get ’em all?”

Jack said, “The ones in here? I think so, but don’t take any chances. There might be one or two that we missed.”

Griff scanned the scene, taking in the damages. “You really brought down the house, man.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“That’s cool. I’m into overkill myself.”

“Where’s Rowdy? Did he make it?”

“Sure. He’s indestructible, the big bastard.”

Rowdy entered. He gave Jack a dirty look. “You almost ran me over, man!”

Jack said, “Sorry.”

“Sorry don’t cut it. Next time watch where you’re driving.”

Griff said, “Lighten up, bro. Save it for Reb.”

“Where’s Weld? He ain’t here. I know, I checked all the bodies while I was making sure they was dead.”

Jack said, “Were they?”

Rowdy smiled nastily. “When I left ’em, yeah.”

Griff said, “Dude, where’s the Rebel? We got us a score to settle with him.”

“You and me both,” Jack said. “This was his rear guard. They had to be neutralized before we can take him.”

Griff smirked. ‘ “Neutralized.’ That’s a good one. Maybe you really are a secret agent, the way you talk.”

Jack let that one pass. It didn’t matter who or what the bikers thought he was. The way to motivate them was to keep their eyes on the prize.

He said, “Reb and his kill squad have already left, gone to Sky Mount on their mission of destruction.
That’s where we’ll find them for the showdown: Sky Mount.”

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 A.M. AND 1 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

Beneath Sky Mount, Colorado

Rowdy said, “Look at all the goodies!”

The enemy kill squad had used the long house as their headquarters. The long house had been a mess hall back in the days when Winnetou had been a summer camp. Two-thirds of its space made up the dining area and the remainder the kitchen.

The kitchen had been pressed into service as the killers’ command center. Long tables that had once been used for food preparation were now crowded with maps, charts, and diagrams, most of them depicting various aspects of Sky Mount’s mansion and grounds.
A wall-mounted pantry cabinet held five silenced machine pistols and ammunition for them, the “goodies” to which Rowdy was referring.

Jack Bauer took down one of the weapons from the cabinet pegs that held it and examined it. It was a modern-day Central European–made knockoff of the classic Ingram MAC–10 and MAC–11 submachine guns. SMGs. The lightweight piece was square, boxy, and fitted with a collapsible metal tube stock. With the stock folded down the weapon wasn’t much larger or heavier than a conventional semi-automatic pistol. It was chambered for .9mm rounds.

The silencer was the size and shape of the internal cardboard roller inside a wad of paper towels, only rendered in metal.

Jack attached it to the short, snouty gun muzzle. He slapped a magazine clip into the receiver, locked and loaded the piece, and thumbed the selector switch to autofire. He pointed the weapon at a metal bucket on a countertop at the far side of the room and squeezed the trigger, letting off a three-round burst.

The silenced SMG made a quick coughing noise that sounded like the stuttering of a compressed air hose. There was no explosion of gunfire, only a whispered phtt-phtt-phtt!

The metal bucket danced and rattled as it was drilled three times.
It bounced off the counter, hit the floor, and rolled.

Griff said, “Nice!”

Jack said, “These could come in handy.” He didn’t have to tell the bikers twice. They were already helping themselves to the weapons with eager avidity. Jack said, “You know how to use them?”

Griff gave him a disdainful look as if he’d just been insulted. “Are you kidding?”

Rowdy said, “I cut my teeth on these babies.”

The bikers stuffed the side pockets of the denim vests bearing the Hellbenders’ colors with extra clips for the SMGs. Rowdy said, indignant, “This is probably part of the same load that Reb stole from the club.”

Griff said, “We’ll return ’em to him with interest— the slugs, anyway. Poetic justice, I call it.” He locked and loaded an SMG and pointed it at Pettibone, who stood off to one side trying to make himself inconspicuous. Pettibone’s hands were still cuffed behind his back but his feet had been freed. The noose still encircled his neck, its free end of rope hanging down his front.

Pettibone yelped, recoiling. Jack said, “We need him, Griff.” Griff looked disappointed but lowered the weapon. “Well . . . maybe later.” Jack said, “Why wasn’t the rear guard armed with these, Pettibone?
”

“
They’re part of Reb’s private stash—for use in the Action only.”

That was Pettibone’s term for the planned strike against Sky Mount: “the Action.” Jack was unsure whether that was the captive’s private usage or the group’s general label for the strike. Not that it mattered. It meant conspiracy to commit mass murder whatever it was called.

The kitchen was equipped with a rusted metal container that looked like it had once been a cooler or food storage locker. It was eight feet long, four feet high, and three feet deep. Rowdy test-fired his SMG by shooting at it. The machine pistol went brrrrip! The silencer suppressed not only the reports but the muzzle flare. Jack noted that with approval. It meant that no telltale flashes of light would betray the presence of a shooter. It worked both ways, of course.
Reb Weld’s hit team was armed with the pieces and would similarly benefit from the suppressors’ stealth.